Posts Tagged distance

Rain Dancers Wear the Colors of Bruises.

After several days of contempt the clouds finally revealed its watery secrets.

I haven’t been musing for a long time, fates have been conspiring to prevent me from taking note of how people in real life interacts. Gestures have become mere gestures, it doesn’t have motives, it doesn’t have history.  I don’t even know what a specific color  a person is wearing represents.

Today it came back in deluge. rain makers are done.

A garden suddenly appeared before me, it has all sort of flowers, vines, and spices. The aroma stings my eyes and made me think of heaven. At the center is the chico tree of my youth, it is where i curved myself when breathing becomes heavy in anticipation of a juvenile meet-up, while the rain etched it’s tattoo on my back, like maps of lost treasures, overlapping each other trying to misled those who are on a long and short hunt.

I will then start to unlock meanings, and i will create new meanings from situations, events, and conversations.  I will also share naming the world in half, one for me – a continent founded on rivers, where houses will rise on books, stories as stilts, and one for your dreaming and drifting one that has wheels on it and  a pedal attached to it so you can roam around with the world you will name, when and where ever you want. Our world will be translated over and over.

This creature

Has hairs of summer

With delicate sorrow on her eyes

And communed in songs

To those that inhabit the underground

World

Bursting from nowhere like a sudden river, the tortured nights before me will stop, i will not grind my teeth to sleep, and i will not be as reckless as evenings induced in rhum, brandy, and all that’s bitter sweet. I will looked at my toes, and delight on the mud under my nails – i’ve been trailing foot paths without my slippers i only want comfort negotiated between my feet and the earth. I will linger in the sensation between my fingers every time they are about to clasp your frail hands. You should know your palm has lines that measures distance in touch.

I will murmur degrees of colors

To harvest the offerings

Of the street clinched

In our fists

It will snake like roads

To where dreams are relocated

Between our eyes.

secrets

Our quarrel is abundant as our questions that we would want to ask each other.  example our coming together is a conspiracy of the universe – our vocabularies are subservient to the wishes of the stars.

These are protracted speculations,  that cannot be settled anytime we are eternally distant and dislocated.

Last week i let go of my possessions, i let go of stories hidden between book pages. i concealed fragrances, and stench in papers and neatly placed them in my collection of fictions and intellectual ranting of dead poets, disturbed intellectuals, the cynical geniuses, brillian junkies and the freaks.

Las week i let go of myself, in whim. then i center a storm in this country that i also call my own.

Tomorrow, we will call on those who were absent, those who have been pushed to forgetfulness. We will remind them that after all that our revisionism is nothing but ordinary, of orders going against the tyranny of comfort.

To end this, i will slowly fold the envelope where you hide letters, i will delete numbers, i will clear my browser history. i will forget, how one evening i saw you surrendering laughter to strangers, as you whistle by the stairs, and click and click and click.

i will write on papers and send them out slowly.

I will take flight and fall like stones from the sky when i am old.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

1 Comment

FIERY UMBRELLA AND OTHER STORIES

Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall

-The Beatles

I never thought that i will be having this sort of vision that i can actually hold mid way to where i am supposed to be today.  One that has real clothes, real scent, and one whose laughter reverberated long after it is gone, one whose sweats can actually crawl out of foreheads and one that you can actually wipe.

Unlike other things that are meticulously planned  way ahead of time – starting with appropriate time, places that leaves a lot of impressions that’s usually cliché, the kind of food to eat, how to position spoons and forks, what comes before and after everything, specific  gestures, and specific disposition. All of these are rehearsed over and over again. However this is predictable and boring. anything planned ahead is boring, to a certain extent.  the aesthetics of being spontaneous presupposes the thinking self according to Descartes, it is not from the modern world but came way ahead before humanity discovered correlation between slow and fast, of departures and arrivals, of risking big and bigger.

It is more natural for me to go without plans and develop directions and consensus along the way. considerations are always welcome, like how weather behaves, i am erratic as always.  I revolved around the belief that characters should not be under duress, it should have time to reveal itself.

I always give myself time to surrender and fall by allowing gravity to overwhelm me. To spare myself from other sickness – I try not to think too much, and be misconstrued along the way, as if there is only one truth for everything out there – regardless where we embarked, regardless of the route we took, we will end up somewhere the living and the dead converge and share spaces.

One of  the many reasons why i kept an umbrella is to project resiliency, to show as if i’m prepared, to perhaps have the last laugh also. there’s some sort of comfort to walk under an umbrella, there’s some sort of music made when rain would start to tick-tack on the cloth on the makeshift roof just an inch from my head. i too love the idea how an umbrella can delay burning too, and that wilting can come later.

Shot like a flower in the dance

-Charles Bukowski

 

I always love basking under the sun, i want the burning to happen equitably over my skin, i am from the equator, and my words are fiery, everywhere my stares fall, tongues of the motherland will become infectious with fire. However my world is also water, i am fluid, i extinguish fires. like water  i am unpredictable, unstoppable to a certain extent, and continuous, and consistent, and persistent.  Sun may reclaim me, but i will return over and over again and fall as rain.

Like what happened before with my decisions – i do them with certainty.  then settle with uncertainty following  my decisions. these are the necessary contradictions that i need.

That way i am good at being misconstrued, that way everything in me is needed with all it’s darkness and brightness, it’s lightness and heaviness.

Today, i like how the sun presented itself. Today i like the way how you came and stretched your arms. today i like the way how shameless i am. today i like all the smudges, the rice on your hair, and the sweats all over our body. as much as i want to measure everything with  steps and get lost somewhere, the limitation with being random, unless in total surrender, it is caught somewhere with  pre-arrangement.

Randomness is poetry.

Oh well.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

4 Comments

from the margins

exactly a year ago today, i opened my world with leave takings, i’ve been raging about loss, and i’ve been raging about how the world should come together.

i’ve learned the essentials – weave foods out of nowhere, knit letters to form stories and start a memory.

speed is important, i’ve named them, segrated them, and summoned them at whim,  so i can be close or far from anything that needs attention and details. I tend to speed up when i am far from the center of comfort, when i’m afflicted, and when i want to elude, and when i long for silence. stories are different when you find me in one place and in another place, suddenly.

there are times, when i go slow, or when i’m compelled to temper my pace, learning is different. when i am warped, caught and stuck, i always find it difficult to untangle myself.

moving is essential, just like poetry, like a good conversation, like a long kiss, like a tight hug. oh well

oh well!

welcome!

you\’re my world, joe satriani

, , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment